


Needs and Wants

by imadra_blue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon - Video Game, Developing Relationship, Flirting, Humor, M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Pre-Slash, Warden Alistair, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3511088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadra_blue/pseuds/imadra_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The week begins with Alistair dropping rocks on Zevran and ends with dirty Antivan sex.  This story is about everything that happens in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needs and Wants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fordeliriumwasoncedelight](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=fordeliriumwasoncedelight).



> Written on request for Tumblr user fordelirumwasoncedelight for a Giveaway Prize. Request was: "Like literally all I can think of is Zevran being happy/or finding happiness like either during the events of da:o or after. I don't really care about the pairing, or if there's a pairing at all. Because like Zev deserves to be happy, especially when he's not going to appear in inquistion."

...

Alistair crossed his arms the moment he drew close to Zevran. The healer, Waryn, was using magic to ice something on Zevran's face. Alistair glanced around. Among the rocks, the blood, and the darkspawn, there were a few corpses wearing Antivan coats.

"What in the Maker's name happened here?" Alistair asked. Of those not killed by the rock fall, one of the dead Antivans had a darkspawn blade in his stomach. Another had knife wounds in the throat too precise to be done by any darkspawn.

"Ah, if it isn't my very good friend Alistair! As you can see, rocks fell," Zevran said, smiling for a moment before wincing. "Everyone died."

"Yes, I can see that."

Zevran balanced on the rock he sat on with one good arm. The other lay uselessly at his side at a very painful looking angle. "Might I inquire as to why the rocks fell? I thought I heard something go 'boom.' This generally indicates someone set explosives. Or has a very violent mage in their company." He eyed Waryn, who ignored him and continued to check his head.

"It was explosives. We engineered the rockfall. For the darkspawn, before you ask. If I'd known you were down here, we might not have used so many explosives. Or used more, depending on my mood."

"I'm crushed," Zevran said, wincing again as Waryn started to check on his bloodied right arm. "On the inside, I should say. As you can see, the rocks missed. Mostly."

Alistair waited for the real explanation, giving Zevran his most irritated expression. It didn't seem to make a dent. Zevran was surprisingly chipper for someone who had nearly just died in a rock avalanche.

After a moment, Zevran seemed to relent. "It's not complicated. The Crows were hunting me, and as you can see—or would if there were less rocks on top of them—they outnumbered me twelve to one. I led them here, hoping the darkspawn would take care of them. Then you took care of the darkspawn. Now you're here to rescue me, I think? It's very sweet of you, my friend. I would have been satisfied with flowers and chocolates alone, but you pulled out all the stops. Or rather, all the rocks."

"Uh huh. Why are you in Orlais?"

"Because I am no longer in the Free Marches, as I'm sure you have already cleverly concluded, yes? Why are you in Orlais, if I might be so bold as to inquire?"

"Because I'm not in Ferelden, clearly."

"Oho! He uses my own wit against me. Ten years have jaded you, Alistair," Zevran said, sounding delighted.

Alistair shook his head. "Get him walking, and we'll head back to Griffon Wing Keep," he told Waryn.

"Yes, Commander," Waryn said, nodding once. His gray hair flopped over his face as he unbent Zevran's arm, perhaps more roughly than necessary, especially given that all the color suddenly drained from Zevran's face. Waryn may have been an elf, but he was about as gentle as a salty old dwarven Deep Roads veteran. His attitude gave Alistair incentive to remain healthy.

"My, what a remarkable bedside manner you have, my friend," Zevran told Waryn in a weak voice. "Have you ever considered professional work as a torturer? I know a man in Antiva who would love to make use of your services on his prisoners."

With absolutely no warning and a terrible crack, Waryn reset the broken bone in Zevran's arm. "Maker preserve me from funny Antivans."

"Why thank you, my strong-handed friend. That feels so much better," Zevran managed to say before passing out in a graceless heap of blood-matted hair.

Waryn glanced at Alistair. "Sorry, Commander, but I think we're going to have to carry your friend back to the keep."

Alistair shook his head. "He'd probably enjoy that a little too much, were he still conscious." He jerked his head at his men. "Let's go."

…

When Alistair walked into the small room they had given Zevran to recuperate in, Zevran was leaning half out of his window, balanced on his left arm since his right arm was in a sling. Alistair almost didn't recognize him from behind, as long as his hair had grown and since he was wearing faded and worn Orlesian-style clothing. That wasn't like the Zevran he had known, with his Antivan leathers and smartly trimmed hair.

"I'm pretty sure Waryn said you were supposed to be resting," Alistair remarked. "Suppose I ought to be grateful you're dressed."

"Oh!" Zevran started to teeter on the window ledge, so Alistair strode across the room in two large steps and grabbed his belt. He yanked Zevran back so hard that Zevran fell against him. Alistair picked Zevran up and dumped him on the bed, making sure to be careful of the arm.

"Do I need to call Waryn in here?" Alistair asked. "What do you think you were doing?"

"I was only checking for escape routes, my friend. Just in case. I was certainly not appreciating the landscape. While the Western Approach has its charms, I suppose, the landscape isn't one of them. There's no need to summon your torture master—I mean your healer. Waryn is his name? Wherever did he acquire his training? In the Black City itself, I suppose?"

"Escape routes?" Alistair drew the curtains back down across the window. His skin still stung from all the sunburns he had earned trekking across the Western Approach. He didn't want to ever see the sun again. "What do you need escape routes for?"

"My dear friend, Alistair, if you don't know why someone of my caliber might need an escape route, then I might suggest you have your head checked by your delightful elven mage associate. I'm certain whatever undue pain he inflicts upon you will be worth whatever cure he administers."

Alistair crossed his arms. "Your arm is broken. You're lucky Waryn's a good healer, even if his bedside manner is somewhat worse than Morrigan's. Even so, it'll take you a few days to fully heal. How do you propose to climb out of the window with only one arm?"

"And two good legs, my friend! I'll manage. I have amazing thighs, actually. You should feel them." Zevran grinned, his tattoo crinkling at the gesture. His face showed little signs of having aged in the last ten years, the lucky bastard, though he seemed thinner.

"I try not feel anyone's thighs unless they've bought me dinner first. Now, to business. I'd like to know how you got here and why."

"I'm hurt, do you not trust—" Zevran fell silent after a moment of Alistair glaring at him. "Oh, fine. After the Inquisition kindly helped me get out of the Marches and into Orlais, I've been doing, ah, a bit of work here and there, to keep myself eating. But the Crows caught up to me in Val Foret. Since I am rather low on friends at the moment, I made my way out here, as I heard there were darkspawn roaming about. I know how they work after all our adventures in Ferelden, yes? The Crows don't. So I led them into a trap. And then got caught in yours instead. Well played."

"I see." Alistair studied Zevran. The story fit what he knew. He had heard about Zevran's continuing trouble with the Crows, though he hadn't really kept tabs on him. Alistair had larger problems, such as Corypheus's false Calling and Warden-Commander Clarel's bad decisions. Still, Zevran had survived a decade of the Crows hunting him. He was resourceful if nothing else. Though his clothes told a different story, he had held up well over the last decade. Alistair had to admit he liked the waist-length blond hair—at least now that it had been washed clean of blood.

"This is an Inquisition Keep, yes?" Zevran sat up more, tucking his legs beneath him as he peered up at Alistair. "What are the Wardens doing here? And I heard a rumor that you had been promoted to Warden-Commander of Orlais. Is it true?"

"First answer, yes. Second answer, we're only here temporarily to investigate a darkspawn problem for the Inquisition and then to resupply ourselves. Last answer, yes."

Zevran laughed. "I am so sorry, my friend, but the idea of you commanding all these Orlesians amuses me greatly."

Alistair scowled. In truth, he hated being in command of the Orlesian Wardens. Not because he particularly disliked the Orlesians—they were no worse than anyone else, as it turned out—but because he hated being in command. So many details to attend, so many decisions, like how many beans to buy, what sort of things his new outpost required, and it all gave Alistair a constant headache. He had never wanted the post, but it wasn't like the Wardens were dripping in choices of late. "Exactly how is it funny?"

"You, my humorless friend, are the picture of a Fereldan in every way. The rugged good looks, the broad shoulders, the terrible hairstyle, the excessive musculature, the simple attitude, the sullen sarcasm, and even your quaint ignorance of sexuality. It must rankle them quite badly to be bossed about by a barbarian. Especially with all that gravy on your shirt."

As Alistair glanced down to check his clothing, Zevran cackled. Seeing no gravy, Alistair looked up to glare at Zevran.

"Made you look, as they say," Zevran said, sitting back on the bed with the sort of smirk that Alistair suspected could start a war in the right environment. "In the time it took you to check for gravy, I could have assassinated you. You did take a suspiciously long time, yes? Is gravy appearing on your clothing a frequent problem?" 

Alistair rolled his eyes skywards. "Maker preserve me."

"Forgive me, my only other company at the moment is your sweet-natured healer, Waryn. And he's not even half as amusing as you are. Perhaps it's his gift for inflicting pain. If this Warden thing doesn't work out for him, I know he could find good work in Antiva."

"I'll be sure to inform him of his Antivan career opportunities. Now, you're here under Warden protection, which means you're quartering under our name for the time being. We're only staying a week to finish our investigation of the darkspawn, then we're returning north to our new outpost. So you need to decide what you're going to do with yourself."

"I was more interested in what you were going to do with me, hm?" Zevran asked, raising an eyebrow.

Deciding to ignore the obvious suggestiveness of that question, Alistair leaned forward to pick at the shoulder of Zevran's faded green doublet. One of the sleeves bore a bright purple patch. "No offense, Zevran, but your clothes look a bit shoddy. When I first met you, your clothes were as fancy as a merchant's son's. Looks to me that you're not doing very well. You should think about your future."

The smiled almost instantly faded from Zevran's face. He said nothing, and his gold-brown eyes grew cool. Apparently, it was all fun and games until someone pointed out the state of his clothing.

"You could join the Wardens, you know," Alistair offered. "I know you know how to fight darkspawn. And I don't have anyone with me who can pick a lock or disarm a trap as well as you—well, I mean, towards the end of the Blight, since despite your claims otherwise, you were pretty rubbish at it when Amell first recruited you. Ever since Adamant, our numbers have been pretty pathetic in Orlais. Put your skills to good use."

Zevran tilted his head, his gaze piercing now, as if he were trying to figure out how Alistair was put together. "And drink darkspawn blood and obsess over the Blight for the rest of my life? No, thank you. Also, the Warden checkered white and blue wouldn't suit my coloring. Pass."

"It's our job to deal with darkspawn and Blights. We don't 'obsess' over the Blight."

"Really? In the last ten years, how many times have you rolled a woman? Or a man, should your tastes have broadened in the meanwhile?"

Alistair scowled. "We are so not having that conversation." Not because he hadn't, but because none of those encounters had meant anything. He found that more embarrassing.

"Ah, that's quite telling. As I said before, pass."

Alistair worked his jaw, surprised at how both annoyed and disappointed he was that Zevran had refused his offer. Zevran could have actually brightened things up a bit, but apparently it was not to be. "Fine. Forget I asked. Thought you might have wanted more purpose than wandering about in patched rags, trying to get darkspawn to kill the men trying to kill you." He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Zevran to purse his lips alone.

…

Over the next few days, Alistair spent most of his time wandering the northern parts of the Western Approach with his men, searching for any darkspawn stragglers and trying not to die from the sun or all the dust. They found only a few darkspawn, but once they found collapsed flooring in some Tevinter ruins that seemed to be the source of them, Alistair had their demolitions expert close it up. As with everything of late, it took too long, was tedious, and people asked him too many questions. The moment there weren't any darkspawn to kill, everyone wanted to know what he was going to do about their problems, about the supplies they needed him to buy, about their spending money, if they were going to get the top or bottom bunk at the new outpost, or some other detail Alistair had overlooked. At night, Alistair's men, all former criminals from Orlais, fought over the best tent. Apparently, Alistair had to buy more of those, too. He hadn't noticed they were in such poor condition. The fights occasionally turned bitter, and Alistair had to break them up. Waryn usually won—not only because was he a mage, but because he was a biter. Alistair wound up having to bandage his own hand after breaking up the last fight.

Grumpy and tired of having to worry about what to buy and how much money he had to buy with it, on top of trying to keep everyone from killing each other over a damned tent, Alistair led his men back to Griffon Wing Keep to report their success. Upon entering the main courtyard, he found Zevran haggling with one of the merchants for some new clothing, his arm out of its sling.

"I am not selling it to you at that price, I don't care what sad story you have," snapped the merchant. "I have to feed my family!"

"As do I. I have four little children, you know. Different mothers, of course. One of them is a dwarf, and she keeps threatening to put my manhood in a jar and deliver it to her noble mother if I don't wear something decent to the next family dinner. Come now, be reasonable. Take my offer. It is not exactly as if business is booming for those silks, is it?"

The merchant peered down at him imperiously and then silently concluded the deal. Alistair stared when he realized Zevran had only spent a single gold on a new silk doublet. If Alistair had paid triple that, he would have called it a bargain.

Zevran turned around, still holding up his doublet, and grinned at Alistair. He held up his right arm. "Good as new! Your healer is brutal, but effective. Like how I imagine a Qunari dominatrix might work, only not as arousing."

Just behind Alistair, Waryn swept his gray fringe from his scarred face and gave Zevran a beady-eyed glare. "Sure you don't want me to double-check for you, Antivan?"

Zevran dropped his arm back down instantly. "Not in the slightest, my friend. I'll take the Qunari dominatrix. At least she might have a safe word, yes?"

"Great. Glad to hear it," Alistair said, sounding more tired than he intended to. He was exhausted, less from hunting darkspawn than from all his anxiety over whether he had overseen every detail. He walked past Zevran, intending on taking a bath and then sleeping for the next two days until they left.

"Oh, my dearest friend Alistair, I have a proposal for you," Zevran said, following him towards the bath.

"I hope it's not about your four kids. I'm not looking to adopt," Alistair said, wondering if Zevran would follow him into the bath. It was public, so it wasn't like he could kick him out. Alistair found he didn't care if Zevran saw him naked. "And I'm not marrying you. Wardens can't marry. Also, it'll be a nightmare trying to find a Chantry that would perform the service for two men. The new Divine isn't that progressive."

Zevran did follow him into the bath, snickering. "Alas, my friend, it was not that sort of proposal. I don't actually have any children—at least none that I know of. A man can never be absolutely sure, no? But, in any case, my proposal is related to your previous proposal. The Warden one."

Alistair hesitated, realizing he was about to disrobe before the most perverted elf in Thedas, then started shrugging his armor and undertunics off. He didn't care if Zevran stared. At least someone might. A little attention could do Alistair good. "So what exactly is this proposal?"

Disappointingly, Zevran seemed unfazed by Alistair's bared chest. He kept his gaze trained on Alistair's face. "You say you need my skills, yes? While I have no desire to become a full member of the Wardens, I am happy to perform my services—for a price. I could be a civilian attaché, as the Orlesians might say. You get to make use of my skills, I get paid, and best yet, I don't have to drink darkspawn blood or wear those awful Warden uniforms. I have a warm coloring, you know. I should be in greens and reds and browns, perhaps even a rich purple, but never checkered white and blue."

Alistair stretched a bit, flexing his muscles, but still, nothing. It was like Zevran didn't even care he was half-naked. That proved sobering. He couldn't even get _Zevran_ to ogle him—and Zevran had once commented on _Arl Eamon's_ firm buttocks. "I've never heard of such a thing. Either you join the Wardens or you don't. If the best you can offer is some fancy Orlesian word for 'mercenary,' then we don't need you. The Wardens don't use mercenaries for a reason. They catch the Blight and die."

Zevran's smirk faded, as it had when Alistair pointed out the state of his clothing, and his eyes didn't seem quite as bright. Alistair suddenly felt like he had just kicked a kitten. "I see," Zevran said stiffly. "Well that, as they say, is that." He left without another word.

Alistair sighed and finished stripping for his bath, though the fun had been taken out of it.

…

Despite being tired enough to sleep through the next Blight, Alistair found he couldn't sleep. He crawled out of bed, dressed, and headed to the Keep's tavern. A couple tankards of ale might not solve Alistair's insomnia, and they certainly wouldn't manage his budget for him, but at least he would be drunk enough not to care.

But once Alistair shuffled into the tavern at the front of the Keep, he saw Zevran sitting at the bar, loudly demanding that a Qunari woman continue a drinking game with him.

"I think not," the Qunari pronounced. "I don't know how you're still conscious. Besides, you passed out for fifteen minutes after the last shot. I've already won."

"No, no!" Zevran protested, waving emphatically. "I'm fine now. I wasn't passed out. I was resting before the next round began. It's how elves drink, I swear. You have ten drinks, you pass out on the street, occasionally lying in a pool of your own vomit, then you get back up and have ten more. It's a strong tradition in the Alienage, I assure you."

The Qunari woman raised a white eyebrow. "The only part of that I believe is the last part. We're done, little elf. Pay up. You owe me thirty gold."

"Yes, well, about that. I'm afraid I'm a bit short."

"How short?"

"About thirty gold short. Is there any chance I can pay it off some other way?" Zevran struck a pose on his stool, but wound up teetering and falling over.

"You're what!" The Qunari woman stood up, her nostrils flaring. The entire bar turned to stare at her. "You played with no money?"

Alistair approached and hoisted Zevran up by his new doublet. "I'm so sorry about that, uh, miss. My friend here foolishly left his coinpurse in his other pants."

The Qunari woman tilted her head, her eyes narrowed dangerously as she studied Alistair. Next to her, leaning against the bar, was a mage staff. Alistair was fairly certain he could take her, but this was a tight space, crowded with people trying to make the Western Approach more habitable by drinking away their problems. In that sort of place, a fight with a mage never worked out very well for anyone. "If you're not paying the gold he owes me, then get out of my way. I will _make_ that elf pay," she said, her tone flat.

"I can take her," Zevran protested before leaning over to vomit.

The Qunari woman jumped back, as did Alistair. She turned and glared at Alistair.

"Look, I'm sorry. He's an ass," Alistair said. "But I can't let you hurt him. He's here under Warden protection."

"Hurt him? What do you think I am, a savage? Wait, don't answer that, you're a bloody human, of course you do." The Qunari woman rolled her eyes. "I was going to make him work it off for the next year. But if he's with you Wardens, then you can pay me the gold, and we're done. I'd far prefer that. Too much time in his company and I might start to like him, and that would be a terrible fate."

Alistair glanced down at Zevran, who was gripping a bar stool and staring down at his shoes with a philosophical expression. Weirdly, over their time journeying with Amell, Alistair had grown accustomed to Zevran's company. And he still sort of missed it. Maybe he did like him. Though he hadn't decided if that was a terrible fate or not. "Fine, I'll pay it." Thirty gold put a dent in his coinpurse, but the benefits of being Warden-Commander were that he could easily refill it. He counted out the gold and handed it to the Qunari.

"Pleasure doing business with you, short stuff." The Qunari woman flounced out, mage staff in hand. Alistair stared after her. Never in all his life had anyone called him "short stuff" before. Then again, most people were shorter than he was.

"That'll show her," Zevran croaked, trying to pull himself up by his stool. "She had it coming."

The dwarven bartender eyed Alistair with beady eyes. "Get that damn elf out of here." 

Unsure of why he had put himself in the position to be Zevran's personal caretaker, Alistair picked him up. Zevran weighed next to nothing. Alistair had to wonder if Zevran had even been eating much since being on the run. Fighting off Zevran's attempts to claw his eyes out, Alistair marched him to the baths, stripped him naked, and dumped him in the waiting hot water of one of the tubs. Alistair tried not to look too much, but he still got a good eyeful of Zevran's thin body, all coppery skin and swirling black tattoos that didn't hide how visible his bones were. Alistair could only be grateful that whatever curses Zevran flung in his direction were in Antivan, so he didn't understand a word.

After struggling in the tub, Zevran emerged from the depths of the water, gasping. "I like to be manhandled as much as the next elf, but this is too much," he finally said in a language Alistair could understand.

"Once you stop reeking of vomit, it will stop," Alistair said, shoving scrubbing salts into Zevran's hands. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

Alistair left to clean himself up. When he returned, Zevran was sitting in his tub sullenly, skin a bit reddened from what Alistair hoped was a good scrubbing. He had sunk low enough in the tub that the water covered his mouth, and he wouldn't look at Alistair.

"Tonic for your mouth. Ought to clean out the taste," Alistair said, holding out a small bottle.

Zevran snatched it out of his hand. When he took a swig of the contents, it took him less than a second to spit it out. "That is the worst thing I have ever put in my mouth!" Zevran exclaimed. "And I'm including the time I—oh, never mind."

"Waryn made it. You're supposed to gargle with it."

"Of course he did. Likely from the tears of small children, the dying gasps of a beloved, and darkspawn piss."

"The last sounds the most likely. But whatever he uses, it works."

Zevran scowled and gargled with the tonic before spitting it out and handing the bottle back to Alistair. He went back to being sullen and silent. Alistair had never seen Zevran act so petulant, and he was tempted to ask what was wrong, but he suspected Zevran wouldn't tell him the truth.

"Right, well as exciting as this night has been, let's get you to bed," Alistair said with a sigh. When Zevran wouldn't move, he plucked him out of the tub. At least Zevran didn't put up any resistance when Alistair wrapped him in a sheet and carried him up to his quarters.

On the way up, Zevran rested against him sleepily, nuzzling against his neck. As Alistair managed to get the door to Zevran's room open, the nuzzling turned into outright kissing. Alistair stumbled as Zevran moved against him, twisting a bit to get a better angle on his neck. Zevran's lips moved rather expertly over Alistair's flesh, and then he started to suck, which almost caused Alistair to drop him in surprise. Warmth spread from Alistair's neck and shot straight down to his cock. His pulse quickened, and his breath hitched. No one had ever kissed him like _that_.

Realizing that liquor was like as not fueling that kiss, Alistair pulled Zevran off of him and dumped him on the bed. "Okay—" He cleared his throat in an attempt to recover his voice. "—that's enough of that."

Zevran lay back on the bed, his long blond hair, still wet, spread out behind him. The sheet had spilled off his left shoulder, revealing an expanse of bronze skin and the black tattoo curled over his shoulder. "You don't even like that?"

"Not like this." Alistair backed up and took a deep breath in an attempt to shake off his arousal. "Good night, Zevran."

"Doesn't need me, doesn't want me. Story of my life," Zevran muttered and curled into a little ball.

As Alistair closed the door behind him, he realized it wasn't too different from his own life story.

…

The next day, Alistair bought and oversaw the moving of his new supplies into his wagons. As many things as they needed in their new outpost, it took him most of the day. The sun had begun its descent, and Alistair had a raging headache. He hated haggling with merchants, but had little choice. Waryn might have been the most charming amongst the group he had with him, and Zevran's mild terror of him could be described as a comparatively positive reaction. There was a downside to recruiting criminals—most were terribly misanthropic. Though after spending the day arguing about the price of beans with Orlesians, Alistair felt rather misanthropic himself. It would have been nice to have someone along better accustomed to haggling and dealing with merchants. Someone who could remember to check the state of the tents and dole out enough spending money to the men to keep them happy. Someone who could handle the administrative details while Alistair went about killing darkspawn and training Warden recruits, which he vastly preferred.

While Alistair ate dinner with his men in the tavern, he glanced about. There were a number of people filling the tavern, including the Qunari woman (now challenging a dwarf to her drinking game), but no Zevran. Despite his absence, Alistair's thoughts dwelled on him. Zevran had proven surprisingly loyal to Amell during the Fifth Blight. He also had demonstrated a gift for haggling with merchants in the market—a gift he still possessed, given his purchase of a silk doublet for a single gold piece. Amell had often left Zevran to handle the details of keeping their group supplied during the Blight. Zevran had claimed assassins had to carefully plan things, and while Alistair had his doubts that Zevran's careful planning helped much with assassination, it had at least helped them in the Blight. He had even coordinated with the elves, dwarves, and mages that assisted them. Zevran could be charming when he wasn't being a bit too much. Alistair could use someone like Zevran.

After dinner, Alistair left his men to enjoy their last night in the tavern and wandered about, looking for Zevran. He eventually found him on the battlements, staring over the Abyssal Reach, his long hair fluttering enticingly in the dusty breeze.

"We're leaving tomorrow morning," Alistair said as he approached. "You'll have to clear out tomorrow, too, or pay for a room."

Zevran still didn't turn to look at him. "I know. The Keep's majordomo told me."

Alistair waited, but Zevran remained unusually silent. "Look, you… seem unhappy. My offer for you to join the Wardens still stands, you know. It is a risk, but so's life. What are you scared of?"

"I'm not scared. I just don't want to be a Warden."

"Why?"

Zevran glanced back at him. "After that whole business with Corypheus, and you ask why? I surprisingly prefer to remain in control of my own faculties."

"Like last night? Way to remain in control of your own faculties. Clearly you're a man of strong principal."

Zevran made a scornful noise. "You ask me why, I tell you why, you don't like the answer, so you mock me like I'm the only man who ever drank too much in all Thedas. I didn't ask for you to take care of me. I wouldn't even be here if you hadn't decided to drop rocks on me."

"Well, next time, maybe I'll just leave you there to bleed to death, since me putting you back on your feet has proved to be so troublesome for you. I'll let you pay your own debts, too."

Zevran sighed and turned around. He braced himself against the stone and studied Alistair. "You're right. You did better by me than many have. Thank you for your help. Now that I have extended my gratitude to you, and since there's nothing else you need or want from me, I suppose we have concluded any further business and shall go our merry ways, as they say."

"What makes you say I don't need or want anything from you?"

"You have previously stated you don't want to pay for my services, and you weren't interested in any pleasure I could give you, so I don't think there's much of anything else I can offer. I am a man of many talents, but most of my talents fall into those two categories."

"You make a lot of assumptions for such a small man."

"Oh, fine, make fun of the elf for not being as tall as—wait, what are you saying?" Zevran blinked his big gold-brown eyes. Alistair had never seen him look so confused. It was a good look on him.

"I'm saying that I need you. I need someone who can deal with merchants for me. Maybe help my new outpost do better. I'd like to turn it into the new main Warden Keep for Orlais. And I've seen you haggle in the Denerim marketplace. You're good at it. You took care of details like that for Amell during the Blight and seemed to do all right. We didn't starve or lack for blankets, at least. You could be like Varel at Vigil's Keep. He wasn't a Warden, but he acted as—oh, I forgot, it was some fancy Orlesian word. You could do that."

"That's called a seneschal, and I could, but it will cost you." Zevran crossed his arms. "Seneschals do more than haggle with merchants. They basically run the place."

"Right. How much, exactly?"

Zevran leaned forward. "Are you sincerely asking me to be your seneschal?"

"I'm asking you how much it will cost to pay for a seneschal. I have a budget."

"If I'm seneschal, I would be running your budget. I would be running everything. You want to pay me enough to keep me honest."

"Okay, we definitely don't have enough money for that. But maybe we have enough to stop you from robbing us blind. Lucky for me you're an assassin, not a thief, or I'd be more worried. About being robbed, obviously, not about being assassinated. But I figured if you were going to do that, you'd have just poisoned one of those wheels of cheese you would buy for me in Denerim."

"Let us get this straight, so I understand clearly." Zevran held up a single finger. "One, you want to put me, an Antivan, an assassin, and an elf, in charge of your budding Orlesian Warden operation." He held up a second finger. "Two, you are willing to pay me enough to remove the urge to rob you blind." He added a third finger. "Three, you need me."

"Yes to all of those."

"Interesting." Zevran rocked back on his feet and tilted his chin up to study Alistair. "Nobody's ever told me they needed me."

"Yeah, well, I do. Does this mean you accept?"

A genuine smile ghosted across Zevran's face, nothing like his usual smirks. It was quite the fetching expression. "I suppose it does."

"Good. Since you're now sober enough for it to not be creepy, you'll find that if you follow me back to my quarters, I can show you how much I want you, too." Alistair turned on his heel and started to make his way down the battlements. When he glanced back, he had the satisfaction of seeing a shocked look on Zevran's face. "Aren't you coming?"

Zevran quickly recovered his smirk. "As easy as I am, my friend, I'm not that easy. If you want me to come, you're going to have to put at least a little elbow grease into it."

"Yes, how clever." Alistair rolled his eyes. His future now seemed it would be filled with a constant stream of sexual innuendoes and what he hoped would be lots of dirty Antivan sex. Definitely seemed like an improvement over everything before it. "Now, are you _coming_ or not?"

"I suppose I will be soon enough," Zevran said with a laugh, and followed Alistair to his quarters.

…

_End._


End file.
